


Readjusting

by Leah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah





	Readjusting

"John," Sherlock whimpers in his sleep, clawing at the blankets as he works himself into an unconscious frenzy. His long limbs flail on top of John, starling him into alertness, confused for only a moment before he fully recognizes Sherlock's needy voice, quietly begging John for help. 

"Sherlock," John murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in the nearly forgotten scent of coconut shampoo. "It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here. Don't worry," John babbles, softly running his hands over Sherlock's arms before flipping him over. John leans over Sherlock's face, planting small kiss to Sherlock's cheeks for a few minutes before Sherlock's body slowly settles. Sherlock lifts his hand up to John's wrist, ensuring his presence before opening his teary eyes. "It's okay, Sherlock," John lets out in a relieved breath, halfway chuckling. 

"John," Sherlock whispers, letting a few tears fall from his eyes. John can't help but feel a small pang of guilt wash through his stomach when he notices the bruises cropping up around Sherlock's eyes and cheeks. "I'm really back."

"You're really here," John answers, dropping his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, sliding his cheek against the soft skin. He suddenly can't seem to hold back all the tears he'd forced himself to bottle up in the last two years. "You're really here," he repeats again and again, his voice breaking a little as the sobs run through his body. 

The hole in his chest seems to be closed, but pulses with each pound of his heart, anyway. 

Sherlock murmurs sweet nothings into John's ear, rubbing the palms of his hands up John's smooth back, working the sobs out of his friend until John has no more tears to cry. When his eyes finally run dry, John drops onto his side, curling into a ball away from Sherlock. Inside, John can't decide if he's angry or overjoyed, since the two are still having a battle in his mind. Half of him wants to kiss Sherlock, and the other half wants to punch him in the eye again. 

"John, I'm so sorry," Sherlock mumbles, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for John to hear him, too. "I'll never stop saying it, and you'll never believe it. Rightfully so. I never should have left you in the first place."

John ignores Sherlock's apologies. Instead, he takes a deep breath, listening to the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice, but not caring what it's saying. Only one thought is coursing through his mind, at the moment.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Know?"

"That you didn't die," John says, rolling onto his back to look into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock has propped himself against the headboard of his bed, wrapping his arms around his thin torso. "Did you make _everyone_ suffer, or just me? Was this some kind of sick joke you and your cronies worked out?" John can't help his rising voice, but the thought of all the pain Sherlock had caused him in the last three years, for naught, is suddenly driving him up the wall.

John can see Sherlock hesitate, a new kind of fear flashing in his eyes before he swallows. "Molly knew," Sherlock whispers, watching his hands. "Lestrade knew. Mycroft knew. Mrs. Hudson, too."

"Mrs. bloody Hudson got to know, but _I_ didn't?" John shouts, pushing himself out of the bed and grabbing a forgotten pair of jeans off the floor. "Your fucking housekeeper got to know you were alive, but I didn't? You're my _best friend_ , Sherlock, and I thought I was yours!"

"I'm your best friend?" Sherlock asks, his mouth gaping. 

" _Of course_ you're my bloody best friend," John snaps, zipping up the pants as Sherlock just watches with surprised eyes. "I thought you and your little deductions would have figured that out by now! I swear, Sherlock, for being the smartest person alive, you can be quite thick!" 

With that, John storms out of the bedroom, letting the door slam on it's hinges as he leaves Sherlock stranded on the bed. 

When John returns to the flat, nearly two hours later, he finds Sherlock curled on the couch, grasping one of John's favorite sweaters, breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and something uniquely John. He doesn't notice John, until he is kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock. Sherlock wraps John's hair around one of his thin fingers, as John buries his face in Sherlock's pajamas. 

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock cries, a few tears streaming down his already soaked cheeks. "I should've told you, I shouldn't've left you, I should-"

"Shut up," John whispers, looking into his friend's stormy blue eyes. They are suddenly the most beautiful things John has ever seen. "Please, Sherlock, just shut up. I'm sorry for shouting. I just- I just love you," John mumbles, pressing his lips against Sherlock's knuckles. He hadn't meant to spill his true feelings for Sherlock just yet, but, suddenly, they were pouring out of his mouth, and he was helpless to stop them. Sherlock's breath gets caught in his chest. 

There's a moment of silence, where neither of them moves or says anything, until a smile breaks out on Sherlock's pink face. He lets out a giddy laugh as he cradles John's face in his hands, pressing his lips firmly against John's. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck, standing up on his knees and sucking Sherlock's lip into his mouth. He feels the low vibration of Sherlock moaning. 

John detaches himself from Sherlock's lips, leaning back to watch Sherlock's reaction. First, a look of objection crosses his eyebrows, before being quickly replaced with a look John had not previously seen on Sherlock's face. He assumes it is one of affection. 

"I don't know if you're in the right mental state to be proclaiming your love for anyone, John," Sherlock teases, hoping his stab at humor will make John laugh. He will have to be satisfied with a weak chuckle, instead. "But I love you, too. I've never felt like this before. When I was gone," he pauses to take a deep breath, "I couldn't help but watch you. I kept tabs on you, when I wasn't too busy clearing my own name. And you broke my heart, every single day. I didn't understand that expression before I thought my heart had actually cracked in half, John. I can only imagine what it felt like for you."

"Like everything that's ever hurt me all rolled into one big ball," John answers, greatly understating the pain he can still feel. "A burning ball stuck in my chest. I thought I saw you everywhere. I couldn't eat without thinking about you. I couldn't do anything without you."

"John, I'm so so-"

"Stop saying it, Sherlock," John interrupts, climbing onto the couch. He curls himself into the corner, where Sherlock's old coat sat, waiting for the next time John needed it. Sherlock scoots closer, trailing his fingers over John's arm. "I know you're sorry, but it doesn't make anything better. It just reminds me of what's happened, and, today, I don't want to think about that. Today, I just want to make sure you're not going anywhere."

"If you say so," Sherlock mumbles. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just lightly caressing each other, ensuring the solidity of the other and loving the way neither of their fantasies had ever been as great as the real thing. Suddenly, John feels an odd desire wash over him. He notices how perfect Sherlock is, how imperfect his own self is. He feels that he doesn't deserve to be so happy, after being properly sad for so many months. 

"I'll be right back," John says softly, planting a kiss on Sherlock's temple. He shuffles into the bathroom, locking the door behind himself. He faces the mirror, noticing the bags under his bloodshot eyes. 

_'How could Sherlock love something like you?'_ he thinks to himself, _'You're not good enough for him. Why do you think he left in the first place? To get away from **you**!'_ John watches as his hands take over, pulling open the medicine cabinet and taking out the familiarly worn box that used to hold allergy pills. He shakes it a few times, just to hear the cold metal blades clink against each other.

He pulls his shirt over his head, lining the thin bit of metal up directly under the cuts on his chest from the day before. The blade bites his skin, stinging as the blood wells up immediately, protesting at the intrusion. John bites his lip to stop himself from hissing. It hurts, yet, at the same time, it brings him back to life, making his heart race with the adrenaline. 

With experienced hands, he ignores the wound's aching protest as he twists his torso to grab a washcloth. He wipes away the blood, flushing the toilet before turning on the faucet and rinsing both his hands and the washcloth of his blood. With a deep breath, he slips into his shirt once again, and casually pushes the door open, welcoming Sherlock with a smile.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

They spent the first day on the couch, alternately kissing, apologizing, and watching their, well, mostly John's, favorite movies. For their first day reunited, John was surprised how little they actually had to speak. He also knows if he talked to much, he'd circle back around to the seething anger from the morning.

John only had to cut twice; a new personal record. 

Now, Sherlock yawns, curling closer to John on the couch, running his hand under John's shirt. John notices as Sherlock tries to subtly work his way up John's chest, to the neat rows of scars he had seen the night before, but John shifts them out of Sherlock's reach, afraid of what Sherlock would think of the freshest cuts. 

Instead, John nudges Sherlock into a standing position, flicking off the television as he pulls Sherlock into the bedroom. He sheds his jeans as Sherlock climbs into bed, having worn his pajamas all day. John hesitates for a moment, his fingers dragging at the hem of his shirt, before deciding to leave it on and clambering onto the bedspread. He pins Sherlock to the bed with his knees, as Sherlock fiddles under the covers with his pajamas. 

He pulls out John's dog tags. 

"Where-" John starts to ask, but Sherlock shushes him, slipping the metal chain around John's neck.

"I had Mrs. Hudson sneak them out for me," Sherlock mumbles, avoiding looking at John's face in embarrassment. "I couldn't live without at least a piece of you. I kept good care of them, don't worry. No one saw them who wasn't supposed to, I promise. I just could-"

"Sherlock, I love you," John whispers, touching his lips to Sherlock's once again. Sherlock eagerly kisses back, tugging on the chain around John's neck.

"And I you," Sherlock gasps when he comes up for air, curling into a ball as John collapses on his side. John's eyes briefly wince when he puts too much pressure on the fresh wounds from today. The expression doesn't go unnoticed, as Sherlock lightly runs his fingertips against John's face, whispering his name. 

John tries to pretend nothing is wrong, tries to pretend Sherlock hasn't got him all figured out, but Sherlock won't let him, as he moves his fingers down John's neck, drumming on his clavicle before toying with the collar of John's t-shirt. Sherlock rolls on top of John, being careful to avoid irritating the slices in John's skin, before leaning down and attaching his lips to John's neck. 

Sherlock traces the jugular vein, realizing it is nothing short of a miracle there is still blood pumping through it, instead of lying stagnant under six feet of dirt. He tries to bite back the sudden tears by nipping along John's jaw, eliciting a gasp from John, who runs his hands up Sherlock's back, digging his fingernails into the flesh, lightly. Sherlock slips his hand under John's shirt, pushing it further up his chest. 

John hesitates for a moment, before he realizes Sherlock won't stop trying until he gets his way. It's best to just go the easy route. Swallowing hard, John arches his back and lifts his arms, pulling his shirt all the way off. He can see the pity in Sherlock's eyes, and something seems to hit him in the stomach, before he lifts himself up on his elbows, entangling his tongue with Sherlock's once again, in an effort to get rid of it. 

Sherlock leans back, shushing John's protests with a lick up his chest, stopping just short of the organized scars. "John," he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against John's sternum. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault. It's mine. I shouldn't have done this to myself, _I'm_ sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock just shakes his head, pressing a kiss to each mark, murmuring a soft apology after each one, until he reaches the bottom of the column that almost reaches John's nipple. Instead of moving to the top of the next one, Sherlock grazes John's nipple with one of his eye teeth, and John arches his back, moaning Sherlock's name. Sherlock darts his tongue of the sensitive nub before kissing his way down John's stomach, scraping his teeth against the smooth flesh at random intervals. 

John's not sure when this changed from an apology to sex, but he's not going to argue while Sherlock's tongue is swirling against his slightly pudgy tummy. Instead, John just runs his hands through Sherlock' hair before gripping the sheets as Sherlock works his surprising magic.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

It's been one week since Sherlock made his surprise return, since John's world was skewed once again. Sherlock either hasn't found John's razors, or he doesn't want to start a fight _that_ big yet. Or, maybe, he knows John isn't ready to leave them behind yet. 

Either way, it doesn't matter because John is just happy to avoid the conversation and still get his guilty pleasure. Sherlock is satisfied just to let his hand brush against John's as they tour the city, taking some time off from crime solving to, instead, lounge about in each other's arms, holding each other so they won't drift away.

It's going to take some time before John is back to normal, but everything will be okay. They just need some time to readjust.


End file.
